2017-04-08

Time can be told in the opening of a flower,Trumpet of dawn, flugelhorn of the sunSinking down. Noiseless explosionsGreet an attentive eye. And the earIs a flower, too, a welcome home for echoes,Kisses, and cackles. Cauldron of starlight,Tincture and blaring cry, whatever brushesYour senses unlatches a doorwayScoured by salt, vanishing as you plunderThe coffers of sleep. So you will knowWhat it means to be utterly free, floatingWithout a hope, floating in hope, a mediumFit for the being you have become, givenThe bed you have made, the race you won.